


Why Breaks Thou The Wand

by Lorinand_Lost (Barefoot_Dancer)



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Ballad 39: Tam Lin, Gen, M/M, the elves are a lot more like the perilous fair folk of British superstition
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-26 15:10:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17144066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Barefoot_Dancer/pseuds/Lorinand_Lost
Summary: Legends speak of the white gems of Lasgalen, formed of pure starlight.  They lie at the bottom of a pool in a hazel grove in the far wood.  But the grove is guarded by the Thranduilion, Legolas Greenleaf.  They say he has skin of paperbark birch, the hair of willow leaves, and limbs of vine and sapling.  He is wild and timeless, and from all who pass through the glen without the Elvenking's permission he will take their ring, their green mantle, or their life.





	Why Breaks Thou The Wand

**Author's Note:**

  * For [starlightwalking](https://archiveofourown.org/users/starlightwalking/gifts).



> This is part of the 2018 Tolkien Secret Santa for arofili on tumblr (starlightwalking on AO3).
> 
> Au of the Ballad of Tam Lin. Gimli is a craftsman from Erebor and desires the gems of Eryn Lasgalen to complete his master work. The only problem is that they're hidden in a clearing guarded by Legolas Greenleaf, the son of the Elvenking. 
> 
> The title is from the ballad itself.
> 
> Note that you can read this as a romantic pairing or a platonic one; I deliberately left it somewhat open. 
> 
> I would also note that there are varying interpretations of the Ballad of Tam Lin, ranging from sexual liberation to assault; a lot of this is a result of the open-ended nature of the text and the shortsighted cultural viewpoints of its time of origin. I was fascinated with the idea of Janet's rescue of Tam Lin, but decided to play fast and loose with the rest of the ballad canon. I think the General rating is appropriate, but if you want me to tag anything, let me know.

It is true that the finest goods in the Wilderlands bear the seal of Erebor, for the work of the dwarves is unparalleled by any other mortal race.  The artisans of Erebor delve for the finest materials and craft cunning designs.  Many riches are found in the deeps - gold, silver, the prized mithril wound in threads through the roots of the mountain - and the great forges flame both night and day.  But always they are delving for purer materials, materials beyond rivalling with which to create their master-works, the proof of the highest level of artistry. 

 

Legends speak of the white gems of Lasgalen, formed of pure starlight.  They lie at the bottom of a pool in a hazel grove in the far wood.  But the grove is guarded by the Thranduilion, Legolas Greenleaf.  They say he has skin of paperbark birch, the hair of willow leaves, and limbs of vine and sapling.  He is wild and timeless, and from all who pass through the glen without the Elvenking's permission he will take their ring, their green mantle, or their life. 

 

Gimli, son of Gloin, works in the forges; he makes armor and axes, but to gain the title of master-craftsman, he will have to produce a master-work.  So he smelts the ore and tempers it, drawing it into fine filaments with which he crafts fancies as light as a feather that sparkle when brought to the light.  But each brooch or set of bangles, while lovely, lacks the spark of originality necessary in master-craftsmanship, and the masters shake their heads. 

 

The older masters talk while deep in their cups.  They speak of the gems of Lasgalen.  The tavern is crowed and rowdy with music when When Gimli sits down beside them with a pint.  "Where can I find asks where to find them, they laugh at how eager he is and slosh ale down their beards.  They tell him the warnings.  He heads out in search anyway; he wears a green mantle and his hair is braided back. 

 

* * *

 

 With the first step into Eryn Lasgalen, the air changes.  The closeness of the trees presses heavy upon him, and the air is very still.  Gimli remembers the words of the masters - _stay on the elvenroad_ \- and sets off into the wood. 

 

He comes to the glade and sees no one.  Hazel brush rings the clearing, and in the center is a forest pool of a deeper blue than the sky.  The gems are a twinkle at the bottom.  He chances a dip in the water with his hand.  Gimli is not superstitious but he almost expects a curse to descend.   Instead, the water only feels wet and the stones are far out of reach.

 

He strips down to just his underthings.  His cloak and other garments he folds and lays among the rushes.  There also he leaves his boots and axe. Something rustles in the hazel, and Gimli, about to dive into the pool, takes his axe in hand.   
 

Out wanders a pale horse; it's not saddled, but it is groomed and healthy, and there is something about it that seems not right.  It regards him with a pair of very intelligent eyes and whickers.  Gimli supposes it must be the Thranduilion's horse.  He freezes, axe at the ready, but the only other sounds are of the wind in the hazel, and nothing else emerges from the brush.  Legolas is nowhere to be seen.  The horse appears to be waiting expectantly, so Gimli fishes in his belongings for an apple.  He holds it out and the horse accepts it gently.  Apparently pacified, it wanders a distance away and crunches its way through the fruit. 

 

This appears to be a signal of permission for Gimli.  He lays down his axe and once more looks into the pool.  At the bottom he can see the gems, so he dives.

 

The pool is deceptively deep, and his lungs burn by the time his hands brush silty sand.  Up close the gems shine like the moon, in spite of the darkness of the water and the faint waver of the sun through the surface.  Gimli pulls a pouch from his breeches and rakes a fistful of gems inside.  The last of his breath is spent tying the pouch to his smallclothes. 

 

He makes to kick off from the bottom of the pool, but his legs foul up in something.  From above, the pool appeared clear of pondweed, but it’s there now and it’s wrapped unnaturally around his legs.  Bubbles slip between his lips and escape skyward as he struggles.  Gimli grabs for his knife, then realizes he left it on the bank with his belt.  He scrabbles at the vines with his hands but can’t find purchase against the straining fibers.  His vision dims. 

 

A booming rapport breaks the quiet dark; water shatters into sluicing bubbles around a golden arrow of light.  Arms come up and around his torso.  Below kicks a pair of powerful legs, and the sun expands through the fuming tumult.  Crowning the surface is akin to a foal splitting the birthing sac.  For a moment the sun transfixes Gimli through the clinging veil of water; then the membrane peels back and air rushes down his throat.  He is expelled onto his back on the bank where he thrashes groggily, streaming water and muddling the loam.

 

A shadow blots out the sun.  It resolves itself into a man with hair the color of barley.  His braids drip water that splashes Gimli's face where he lies.  He is wearing only his white undershirt - laces askew - and trousers; his surcoat and other effects are heaped to one side of the pool.  He pulls his bare feet beneath him into a sitting position and asks "How may I call you, master dwarf?"

 

Gimli is water-addled, but smart enough to give his chosen name in Westron, keeping his True Name to himself.

 

"And what is your business in my woods, Gimli, son of Gloin?"

 

 _My woods_.  So this is indeed the Thranduilion.  "I seek the gems of Eryn Lasgalen for my masterwork.  I have found no other stone so fine."  Gimli certainly doesn't feel like a master craftsman here, diminished and bedraggled, water running from his braided beard and down his chest. 

 

"As flattering as I find the sentiment, permission has not been given."  He leans towards Gimli, and before the dwarf knows it, the pouch is in the elf's hands and then stowed in his breeches.  "Did you think you were the first to come in search of treasure?  Tell me - " he says lowly - "Did your masters tell you what I take in recompense from trespassers?"

 

Gimli nods wordlessly. 

 

The Thranduilion hums.  "There's a pretty thing," he says, pointing at the ring on Gimli's right hand.  "Excellent workmanship, and we have so few garnets.  It will do as payment."

 

There really is nothing to be done except give over the ring.  Gimli dresses under the elf's eye and then sees himself out of the forest.  He feels like eyes follow him to the border, though he sees nothing. 

 

* * *

 

The old masters mock him lightly when he returns without any gems.  They again retire to the tavern and this time Gimli does not follow.

 

He sets out again a week later to try again.

 

He reaches the pool, but remembering the pondweed decides against diving in.  Instead, Gimli picks some rushes and pairs some hazel wands.  He sits to weave them into a net with which to dredge the pool.  The net is near-complete when the Thranduilion appears over his shoulder. 

 

"I did not expect you to return," he says with something close to cheer.

 

Gimli starts and drops the rushes. "Elf!" he roars, forgetting that ostensibly, the Thranduilion could end his life in the span between one heartbeat and the next. 

 

"Please, call me Legolas."  He waves a hand.  Infuriatingly, he wears Gimli's ring.  "Is it something of a bet for you, seeing if you can best my stewardship?"

 

"I said I would get those gems, and I will."  Gimli keeps weaving. 

 

"Pluck not what grows in the glen," warns Legolas.  He waves his hand again, and the net collapses into adders and newts and tadpoles.  Gimli flings them free of his hands and they slither away into the rushes. 

 

"What it will take to secure that which I desire?"  Gimli shivers in revulsion as a lone adder wriggles out from under his thigh. 

 

Legolas moves before Gimli can flinch and pinches the adder behind the head.  It thrashes as he gathers it into his hands.  Legolas tilts his head.  "How many gems do you need?"

 

"Three of high quality would suffice."  Gimli wipes his hands on his trousers to rid himself of the phantom serpent.

 

Amusement plays over Legolas' lips.  "I will give you the three best gems in the pool if you come with me for an evening in the hall under the hill."  He cups his palms and releases the adder, which slithers away.

 

"Three fabled gems for a night out dancing?  Elf, I smell a rat."

 

"I desire some entertainment.  Tonight marks the beginning of Enderi, the wood-elves' autumn rite.  Never before has a dwarf been to the Enderi festivities of Eryn Lasgalen, and it would amuse me to play a practical joke on my father."

 

Gimli bristles.  "I am not some cheap diversion!"

 

"I thought your people had no love for the elves of Doriath.  And those caverns are from whence came the Elvenking."

 

"Then I will meet you here at the closing of the day."  He made to leave.

 

"I must still take your payment for trespassing."

 

Gimli glared at him.  "And what could I have to give that a princeling might want?"

 

"I'll take your green mantle."  And so saying, Legolas took it in hand and vanished in a whirl of hazel leaves.

 

* * *

 

Gimli returns to the clearing that evening wearing the light armor he wrought himself, tanned leather instead of his battle mail.  His shirt and cloak are of fine linen, and he has threaded gold beads through his braids.

 

"You look well."  The words float down from overhead, and Gimli cranes his neck to see Legolas sitting in the branches.  The elf has exchanged his hunting gear for robes the color of moss embroidered with vegetation. "But not good enough to fool the Elvenking."  Legolas drops out of the branches.  Gimli notices that Legolas is wearing his pilfered cloak.  With a wave, he transfigures Gimli's leathers into plates of gnarled bark.  He sprouts holly in between Gimli's braids and scarlet berries in his beard, and gives him a circlet of willow twigs. 

 

"It took me a month to craft those leathers."

 

Legolas shrugs.  "Harmless illusion, nothing more." 

 

"You will walk into your father's hall wearing dwarvish finery and expect him not to notice?"

 

"We do trade with your people, you know."

 

Gimli grunts.  "Well, I suppose it's a compliment our goods are fit for the Crown Prince."

 

Legolas rolls his eyes.  "An evening in the hall under the hill, and if none guess your parentage, the gems are yours.  Follow; the door is near."

 

The door is actually a crack in an old oak.  Before entering, Legolas turns to Gimli.  "I must warn you; not all of the Greenwood's residents are as charitable as I."  Gimli snorts.  "Laugh all you like, but do not sup the food nor sip the mead.  And if you feel the urge to dance, take only me as your partner."

 

Legolas ducks through the opening, and Gimli follows.  The air is close and stale, and creepers tangle in their hair.  An interminable amount of walking puts them out in an antechamber of sorts.  Through an archway curtained in ivy, Gimli can hear a wild sort of music.

 

Legolas smiles.  "Let us proceed."

 

The noise rolls over them as soon as they part the curtain.  Bodies pack the hall and surge between the columns that support the soaring vaulted ceilings.  Lights gleam in the high places and cluster under arches and drip from the walls.  Great spaces are cleared for the dancers, and along the walls stand trestle tables bowing under the weight of food and drink.  Below the dais sit a half-score of musicians with fiddles and reed pipes and hide drums.  Feet stomp in time to the drums.

 

Gimli looks at Legolas; the elf's eyes are bright and alive.  Legolas says "One does not come to my hall and leave without dancing; do me the honor?" and pulls Gimli into the circle forming in the center.  The wailing music of the reel suspends time, and Gimli loses sense of temporality.  His hand is in Legolas', and then they part and join with other dancers, but as the reel eddies they always find themselves face-to-face again.

 

The reel ends, and Gimli does not know for how long he danced, only that his feet hurt.  Legolas leads him out of the thick of it - and straight into the path of the Elvenking.  He is tall and grave, with pale hair and stern eyes.  Gems drip from his throat and wink on his fingers.

 

Legolas inclines his head, so Gimli does the same.  "Greetings, my lord," he murmurs, which Gimli thinks is an odd manner of address for one's own father. 

 

"And to you, my son.  And you," he says to Gimli, "I do not know your face."

 

Gimli bows.  "A humble traveler."

 

"Ah."  Gimli gets the sense that Thranduil is taking the measure of him.  "Welcome, then."

 

" _Adar_."  Legolas has his hand on his father's sleeve.  "If I may speak with you…" He steers him away into the crowd, which parts before their king.  Legolas tosses a wink backward and then the crowd closes again.

 

"You came with the prince?"  The voice startles Gimli, and he spins around.  An elf-woman stands before him.  She wears a white robe trimmed with swan feathers, and her golden hair is unbound.  She glows like the gems of Lasgalen, and her smile is soft and reassuring.

 

"Aye, my lady," Gimli says, and bows again.

 

"Oh, no need for that."  She straightens his shoulders.  "You may call me Galadriel, or simply Lady."

 

"Good evening, Lady."

 

"Ah, a polite one.  Wherever did Legolas find you?"

 

Gimli fidgets. "Ah…"

 

"It's not so often one of your folk comes to court."

 

And now he freezes.

 

"Be at peace; I am not sure I am wiser for my age, but I have learned the virtues of raising a little hell." 

 

Unsure of what else to say, Gimli replies "Thank you, Lady."

 

An elf skims by with a tray full of champagne flutes, and Galadriel takes two.  She takes a sip of one and holds the other out to Gimli. “You may take this."

 

Gimli remembers the words of Legolas and his masters. “Is it freely given?”

 

“It is given to you.”

 

 “I must decline.” 

 

Galadriel's eyes twinkle.  "Then the least I can do is offer you a dance in the name of good hospitality."

 

The music starts up again, a rollicking and light little tune, and Gimli feels his toes twitch.  Galadriel is lovely, less in her physical appearance and more in the sense of calm she projects, her words and smile.  He knows what Legolas said, but she seems so benign, and he finds himself proffering his arm to her.  "Lady," he begins -

 

\- and then Legolas ducks back through the crowd.  Gimli's arm drops.  Galadriel gives Legolas one of her smiles and drains the rest of her flute.  She hands the empty glass to a passing server.  "Good evening, princeling," she says, and it is both a greeting and farewell.  She is still holding what would have been Gimli's flute, and she sips it idly as she disappears into the crowd.

 

"How long must I be gone for you to forget my instructions?"

 

"The lady meant no harm," Gimli blustered.  "How could one so fair of face and good at heart do ill?"

 

"Indeed, she is good at heart, but goodness does not equate to kindness.  She has a habit of playing with her proverbial food.  While she would eventually let you go in good sport, she is fickle in the exact when of the matter."

 

Gimli grumbles a little more, so Legolas drags him away to an alcove.  From a pocket of his robes he pulls a crystal jar of salve.  He uncaps it - the contents smell of sage.  "I bid you, close your eyes." 

 

He smears a thumbful of salve over each of Gimli's eyelids.  It stings like wintergreen and a feeling like ice water rolls down to his toes like a curtain falling.  When he opens his eyes, the court is changed.  The food no longer appears like that to which he is accustomed - most looks edible, but _off_ , and Gimli swears he can see a woman in an alcove across the room - what could pass for lace evening gloves is actually webbing between her fingers - put a whole wriggling spider into her mouth.  She catches his eye and winks.

 

"Do you see what I mean?" Legolas murmurs.  "Nothing is as it seems."  And this is true, for Gimli can see the prince's fingers, long and slender with the dappled aspect of the birch switch, the fluttering wheat of his hair, the embroidered flowers and vines on his robe as waxy as the living thing.

 

A ringing ripples through the room and the crowd falls silent; Thranduil calls the party to attention.  "Come forward," he calls, arms raised, "for the selection."  Gimli can see now that what looked to be a crown is a sweeping set of antlers, wrapped in vines and studded with glowing white crystal. 

 

The crowd assembles in front of the dais.  "This is where I leave you," says Legolas.  "I go to my father's side."  He ascends the dais and takes a seat next to Thranduil.

 

A massive cauldron is brought forward, full of a shimmering liquid.  Thranduil sinks his hand into the cauldron.  When he pulls it out, his sleeve is dry, and he holds a pearlescent glass ball.  The hall is silent. 

 

He dashes it to the flagstones, and smoke issues forth.  It coalesces into the form of a tall, broad shouldered man, whose simple braids follow the line of his circlet and cascade down his back.  The circlet is the same as the one worn by Legolas.  The likeness is lively-eyed, but at his father's side Legolas is sits motionlessly. 

 

The room erupts in whispers, and shouts rise from the back of the hall.  It ceases when Thranduil raises a hand.  "We convene at sundown in two days."  He rises and sweeps from the room.  Legolas stands too, and after a beat of eye contact with Gimli, follows his father.

 

Something is wrong, but Gimli doesn't know what.

 

Galadriel finds Gimli in the throng.  While she is still very lovely, there is something unreal in her aspect.  The white feathers he earlier took for a shawl now seem to creep from the low back of her dress out along her bare arms, and her teeth are infinitesimally too sharp. 

 

"What will happen now?" Gimli asks her. 

 

"Did Legolas tell you of our harvest festival?" 

 

"Briefly; you offer thanks to Yavanna for the harvest."

 

"And did he tell you how we do that?"

 

"Not in detail, no." 

 

"Our festival lasts three days.  The first evening, one of the court is chosen to be a sacrifice.  The second day, the one chosen sequesters themselves away in contemplation and the rest of the court builds the sacrificial altar.  On the last evening, the blood of the chosen is spilled in offering at the pool of Lasgalen." 

 

"And this guarantees you a season free from famine and fallow?  An awfully steep price." 

 

"Such is the price of our lady's grace."

 

Gimli crosses his arms.  "Perhaps the grace of your lady is not as much a blessing as you would suppose, if it parts father from son." 

 

"The elves are tied to the land in much the same manner of the Dwarves; when we die, we go to the halls of our fathers, and then are reborn onto the green fields of Valinor.  Most would consider it an honor to give their lives on Enderi, for it means eternity in paradise."  A hard edge enters Galadriel's voice. 

 

"Most?" 

 

"Why not ask your princeling yourself?" 

 

Galadriel leads Gimli out of the hill.  He dares not make camp in the wood, so he spends a fitful night on the plain under the stars.

 

* * *

 

Gimli returns to the pool the next day.  Legolas is there, and he stares into the water.  When he hears Gimli enter the glade, he tosses the pouch of gems in his direction.  "This is what you came for, is it not?  Take it; I care not what you do with it."

 

"For the love of all things holy," growls Gimli, and dumps the contents of the pouch back into the pool.  "I came for you, you blasted fool."

 

"It is senseless."

 

"What's senseless is a father sacrificing his son for some harvest ritual.  You perhaps didn't see his face last night, but I did; never have I seen a parent so calm and cruel in the face of their child's doom."

 

"My father is a good man," Legolas cries, rounding in Gimli. "He has already lost much in the way of family.  My mother was taken prisoner in Gundabad and tortured to death - her fea had fled by the time my father stormed the keep, and she died soon after.  The rite provides prosperity in all aspects, which includes keeping the borders safe from the incursions that have taken many mothers from many sons.  He is a king first before a father; why should my life be worth more than any other son of Lasgalen?"

 

Gimli bowed his head.  "I owe you a sincere apology.  We dwarves guard our children jealously - women make up only one third of our population, and less than a third will take a husband, for some desire none, so each child is precious."

 

Legolas rubbed at his face.  "Children are prized among the elves as well.  Our power is diminishing, Gimli.  We long for the west.  As we faded, the number of newborns each century dwindled until the birth of an elvish child was more precious than starlight."

 

Gimli remembers what Galadriel had said.  "When I spoke with Galadriel, she said most elves long for Aman.  It appears to me that you do not want to go."

 

Legolas sighs.  "The longer we stay, the more we fade.  I am still in love with these woods and green fields.  I have a long time before I feel the pull of the waning and the longing for Aman.  Yet, I am the youngest chosen by the cauldron so far." 

 

"Can something be done?" 

 

"For asking that, I name thee elf-friend, Gimli, son of Gloin," cried Legolas.  "For this task is perilous and must be undertaken willingly."

 

"I will do it."

 

"Tomorrow is the last night of the festival.  There will be a procession on horseback to the altar, which will be built near the pool.  The procession will be lead by the Elvenking on his elk, then a solder on each a black horse and then a brown.  Then I will come on my white horse.  You must drag me down from my saddle. 

 

"The other elves will use their powers to transfigure me into all manner of wild creatures - as you are an elf-friend, I will not hurt you.  You must hold me tight as I change.  I will frighten you but you must hold fast.

 

"My final form will be that of a burning coal.  You must throw me into the pool.  I will emerge as an elf again, and you must cover me with your green cloak.  I will be hidden, and I will be free."

 

* * *

 

As the sun sets on the third evening, Gimli hides himself along the elvenroad. 

 

He hears the procession before he sees it - a hide drum and one pan flute.  Then Thranduil comes up the path, dressed in silver robes and sitting astride a massive elk.  His face is solemn and his antlers dip as he stares at the long knife in his lap.  Attendants on foot carrying braziers flank him.

 

Behind him proceeds a dark-haired elf on a black horse.  Next, a red-haired elf-woman rides a chestnut mount up the path.  Elves on foot surround each rider, and it makes the viewing difficult.

 

Around the bend comes a flash of white, and then Legolas' horse steps into view.  Legolas is dressed simply - he wears a linen shirt and trousers, for once without weapons.  He rides with his head up, but his eyes don’t see much.

 

Gimli judges the distance from the procession to the pool.  The altar is assembled to one side, a wood platform with arches woven from barley and ash wands.  In the center is a wicker bier braided through with holly, intended to be set afloat the pool.  The attendants light the braziers.  He cannot reach Legolas in his saddle, so he unsheathes his knife.  When Legolas' horse comes near enough, Gimli explodes out of his hiding place beneath the hazel.  He bowls over two or three startled onlookers and slashes the straps of the saddle as he ducks between stamping hooves.  Legolas' horse rears as the saddle loosens.  Legolas slides hard into Gimli's arms and the two of them hit the ground.

 

Immediately, Legolas' flesh begins to ripple and shrink, and Gimli grabs tighter.  In his hands now, wadded in a man's shirt, is a thrashing adder.  Gimli holds him.

 

As soon as the transformation is complete, he begins to grow.  The shirt stretches and tears as Legolas grows past the confines of his elvish form.  Now Gimli sits astride the neck of a great slavering bear, which rears on hind legs and growls, whipping from side to side.  Gimli buries his face in thick fur and holds on.

 

The next transformation is the worst.  The bear shrinks into a mountain lion.  It yowls and rolls, trying to get its paws on Gimli.  Gimli wraps all four limbs around it's ribs and holds on. 

 

Then the lion shrinks.  It heats to a near unbearable temperature, but Gimli knows it will not burn him, for he is elf-friend and of hardy dwarvish stock, and holds it in his hands until it becomes a live coal.  Then he throws it into the pool. 

 

Steam issues from the pool and blankets the clearing.  A pair of arms appear over the bank, and then a head, and Legolas is heaving himself up out of the water.  Gimli rolls himself upright, rips the cloak from his shoulders, and flings it over Legolas' bare skin.

 

 Gimli turns around and looks right up into the furious face of the Elvenking, who holds the ceremonial dagger with a practiced ease.

 

"I should have known," Thranduil spits, grabbing Gimli by his shirtfront, "That you were not one of us, that one of the Naugrim would plot against us.  I will strike you were you stand for daring to intervene, you - "

 

"Stand aside, father!"  Legolas' voice rings in the clearing, and then his head appears in the mist.

 

"Put the cowl back up, laddie," growls Gimli.

 

"I named him elf-friend," cries Legolas, and every head in the clearing comes up.  "If you so much as move to touch him, you will be breaking the laws of your land."

 

Thranduil lets go of Gimli and rounds on his son.  "If I had known this was your plan, I would have plucked out your eyes and made them wood, and plucked out your heart and made it stone, you insolent, selfish -"

 

A wind whips through the glen and a voice echoes in the clearing.  It seems like one woman, and many women, young and old, perhaps in different languages, both a shout and a whisper.  "The rite is complete; blood given protects blood for a season."   And Gimli looks and does see that Legolas is bleeding from beneath the cloak and favoring his right leg - he must have been injured sometime during the struggle.  "What is the difference to an immortal between Being one moment and the next Un-being and the reverse?"

 

Thranduil drops the dagger and falls back. His face is waxy and graven. "My son," he whispers, "You are free to go."  He covers his face with his hand and turns away.

 

* * *

 

In a glittering cave lives Gimli the dwarf and he delves and smiths all day.

 

In a fledgling forest lives Legolas the elf, and he sings to the trees and goes running out across the plains under the stars.

 

And together they go roving far and wide.

 

When it is time, and Gimli's hair is grey and Legolas feels the call of the gulls, they build a boat and sail away to see the west.

**Author's Note:**

> This ended up being so much longer than I intended or anticipated! And to date, this is the fastest I've finished a fic of this length (last night at four in the morning).
> 
> I was really inspired by O. R. Melling's novel The Summer King - if you haven't read it, you should, because it's fantastic, and I really drew from it while rethinking the elves' characterization. Here, the behavior of Galadriel and Thranduil is perhaps more feral than seen in canon, but I wanted them to exist in the context of the perilous seelie court. 
> 
> As far as the harvest festival goes, I ran across a tumblr masterlist of all the Middle Earth holidays recorded in Tolkien's works. Enderi is a three-day festival meaning the Middle Days; it's in early October by our calendar. It's similar to the Numenorean harvest festival Eruhantale, where the king gave (bloodless) sacrifice to Eru upon the Meneltarma. In Tam Lin, the festival mentioned is Halloween, and the sacrifice is made to the devil, so I decided to make Enderi a blood sacrifice. And the concept of solitary prosperity (see the Girdle of Melian and Thranduil's isolationism) led me to thinking about the real or metaphorical consequences of isolationism. Yavanna is not mentioned in the canon as a part of Enderi, but she is the Vala of the harvest and I needed a figure to intervene in the end.


End file.
